


The Autonomy of Fate

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-02 09:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: Before he was known as The Strategist, Ignis Scientia is a novice advisor rising through the ranks of Lucian politics. Polite and reliable—if a bit stuffy—he is often tasked to perform duties both conventional and unorthodox in service to the king. But when the next responsibility placed upon his shoulders involves a daughter of Tenebrae, he finds himself suddenly questioning his own loyalty and devotion to the crown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -Within the timeline of my own personal canon, this story would come first, followed by "The Bartender", "The Strategist & The Redhead", and "Memory Lane & Pastries" (in that order). Happy reading! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -These early chapters are SFW (sorry). Later chapters will warrant an R-rating so I'm tagging the whole story as explicit from the get-go. I'm not sure when things will get hot and heavy but I promise they will eventually.

“For _how_ long, exactly?”

“Through the spring.”

“You’ve seen what my schedule is like—surely you recognize there are others who could dedicate far more time to this than I.”

“Maybe so, but you’re the only person I feel confident enough to entrust with this particular task.”

“Six weeks is less of a task and more of an obligation, wouldn’t you say?”

“Consider it a personal favor, then. The ambassador and I are old acquaintances since before the war, and I’d like for him not to have to worry about minor details.”

Ignis cranes his head around the doorway of a lavishly decorated suite, just enough to catch a glimpse of the main chamber’s occupants. Two individuals on the opposite side stand idly by and observe the Insomnian skyline from a large bay window, pointing out at the view from their position on the 45th floor of the Citadel and seemingly oblivious to the quiet debate taking place just outside in the hall.

“I’m going to assume I’m correct in stating you intentionally waited to bring this up to me until the eleventh hour,” Ignis says tartly.

“I simply didn’t want to give you too much time to overthink it. Besides, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“I’d argue the jury is still out on that.” He returns his attention to his counterpart and heaves an insufferable sigh. “All right, Uncle—if you insist.”

The elder Scientia claps an appreciative hand to Ignis’ shoulder before leading them both through the doorway. An opulent floor rug muffles their footsteps as they cross the room, until one of the figures near the window—an older gentleman wearing the telltale robes of a Tenebraean statesperson—takes notice of their approach and turns to greet them.

“Ambassador,” his uncle says, enveloping the statesman’s hand in a warm handshake. “It’s been far too long. I trust the checkpoint in Leide gave you little trouble?”

“None at all,” the man replies. “Lex Fatum is hardly a house that sets Imperial tongues wagging. Only the Nox Fleurets are kept under such tight surveillance.”

“Good to hear. I’ll make sure King Regis is ready to receive you whenever you are feeling sufficiently rested. Before that, however—” His uncle releases the ambassador’s hand and angles himself toward the young retainer. “Allow me to introduce my nephew, Ignis. He has graciously volunteered to oversee the matter we discussed in our previous correspondence.”

 _Volunteered? Bollocks._ “A pleasure, Ambassador,” Ignis says, bowing his head respectfully in an effort to conceal his annoyance.

“The pleasure is all mine. And this is my daughter—” The ambassador trails off, pivoting on one heel and scanning the room until his gaze falls upon the room’s remaining occupant. “Cecilia, darling—come over here, please.”

It’s hard to tell precisely what the ambassador’s daughter looks like from where Ignis is standing, and it isn’t because his glasses needed cleaning; she is still hovering near the window, her attention fixated on a nearby skyscraper and her face nearly plastered to the glass. “Did you see the Guardians protecting the Wall amplifiers, Daddy? They’re much bigger than how the books describe them.”

Her clipped accent is not dissimilar to his own, although every Tenebraean national Ignis had personally encountered over the years affected a cadence of speech that differed ever-so-slightly from that of King Regis and most of the royal council. It made everyone native to the region sound airlike and somewhat avian to his ears, which he supposes is an apt analogy considering the young woman—only now finally peeling herself away from the window sill and migrating toward the rest of the suite’s congregation—resembled a bird in many ways.

“Had our visit been shorter, this arrangement likely wouldn’t have been necessary,” Ambassador Lex Fatum says, draping an arm across his daughter’s shoulders as she stops beside him, “but more than a month is a long time to be away from one’s studies, and I allowed Cecilia to accompany me on this trip only under the explicit condition that she not neglect her education.”

Ignis steps forward and offers a formal hand in the direction of the ambassador’s daughter. “Lady Cecilia. As a son of House Scientia and a member of King Regis’ household staff, I have the… _privilege_ of been assigned as your private tutor throughout the duration of your stay.”

“And guide,” Ignis’ uncle adds merrily.

The young retainer raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“For the palace grounds. The Citadel’s geography can be rather confusing to newcomers—wouldn’t want the young lady to get lost in the botanical gardens by accident.”

“Ah.” He hopes the withering glare he is leveling at his elder isn’t obvious to their esteemed guests. “And guide. Apparently.”

Long, slender fingers attached to an even longer, slenderer arm slip into the hand Ignis is holding out. “My apologies—what did you say your name was again?”

When he returns his attention to his newly minted pupil, his gaze is met by two unusually large and penetrating eyes that appear much like the rest of her: alert, inquisitive, and… well, _birdlike_. “Ignis,” he says.

“Ignis,” she echoes, her voice all but a chirp. “In that case, and until fate dictates otherwise, I am in your care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -If you're wondering why I picked such a specific (45th) floor: I recently went to the building in Japan that the Citadel was modeled off of (the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building). The 45th floor is where the observation deck is! :D


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t so much a full schedule that bothered Ignis. On the contrary, he thrived on productivity, prided himself on his organizational skills, relished in the satisfaction of distilling hours into minutes. They were the selfsame traits King Regis had identified when he recognized Ignis’ potential at a young age, and were without a doubt what made the advisor-in-training so good at his job.

A little _too_ good, in fact, because what invariably happens when Subject A is overly efficient at their work is that Subjects B through Z come to rely on A for tasks that are originally beyond his scope. For instance, in his second year as a senior student, Ignis had achieved a perfect score on every one of his calculus exams; the very next semester his professor had somehow talked him into grading papers for all the other mathematics classes; the following year he was proctoring tests solo and filling in as the occasional substitute lecturer. Which wasn’t quite as daunting as it sounded, since many of the children of royal retainers in service to the crown—numbering no more than a dozen at any given time—were privately tutored in small classrooms onsite on palace grounds; what followed, however, was a steady trickle of responsibilities that eventually snowballed into an avalanche.

There were the morning council meetings of which Ignis was expected to be in attendance: long, monotonous sessions that resulted in pages and pages of notes, all needing precise filing within the state archives on a daily basis. Upon learning his future duties would entail the protection and security of the blood royals, he had enrolled himself in gymnastics, martial arts, and swordsmanship training, the latter of which he’d proven such prowess in that his instructor had asked him to help coach the Citadel’s newest polearm recruits. Completing his academic studies a year early had lifted a sizable weight from his shoulders, only to be replaced by another, more cumbersome burden in the form of a mandatory civics curriculum required of all present and future chamberlains. His eighteenth birthday had come and gone with little fanfare, as he’d spent most of it poring over a mind-numbingly boring tome of Lucian public policy while waiting to be fitted for his ceremonial vestments in preparation for his formal induction into the Crownsguard, which was just a few short weeks away.

No, it wasn’t having to take up a coffee habit so as to maximize what he could accomplish in a single day that irked him, nor was it sacrificing his piano lessons—the one activity he enjoyed purely for the fun of it—in order to accommodate the needs of a low-ranking official and his teenaged daughter. What really bothered him was the fact that the _one_ person he was arguably doing all of this for was moody, ungrateful, and wanted little to do with Ignis at the present moment.

“What’s this?”

He’s still ruminating over the distastefulness of his predicament when Cecilia’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. “What’s what?” he asks.

They are walking through the Citadel’s western courtyard, a garden-like promenade behind the main building and nestled between a half dozen smaller satellite structures. She is stopped a few paces behind him at the entrance to one of the structures, her fingers brushing lightly against a large, ornate door. “This.”

He resists the urge to sigh. It is the third day they have traversed this exact path together en route to the student study hall, and the third day she has found something to derail her seemingly infinitesimal attention span. Yesterday it was the painting of the Prophecy hanging in the lobby of the Citadel, whilst the day before that it was the Regalia parked in the roundabout of the front pavilion; today, apparently, it’s a nondescript municipal building.

“The athletics facility,” Ignis explains. “It’s where members of the Kingsglaive come to train. Although anyone with proper clearance is allowed to use its amenities—”

“I don’t mean what’s inside. This door—it tells a story.”

The main entrance to most buildings on palace property were equipped with identical double doors of gilded bronze, encompassed by an archway of square tiles. The door Cecilia stands before appears to be no different from any other, at least, not until Ignis steps closer and adjusts his glasses; only then does he realize her observation is correct, and that the tiles adorning this particular archway diverged from the ones that were installed around other doors. Instead of the usual abstract geometric patterns, he watches as her fingers gently trace over a chiseled figure carved in low relief, with each surrounding tile portraying a different scene.

“So it does.” Ignis’ eyebrows furrow behind his spectacles. “To be honest, I’m not sure I ever noticed that before.”

“The way you’ve been towing me through this courtyard every day, it’s a wonder you even notice what color the sky is.” She offers him a teasing grin before nodding back to the archway. “Do you know what it’s about?”

He studies the tiles for a long moment, beginning with the lower left one and following each progressive scene up and over the archway. “The carvings are rather stylized,” he says finally, “but I believe it depicts the tale of the Archaean catching the Meteor.”

“That would make sense. You said this is the athletics facility—Titan is the patron deity of strength, is he not?”

The young retainer suddenly finds himself wondering whether the aquatics center was similarly embellished with the visage of Leviathan, or if the building that housed the Citadel’s electrical generators paid homage to the Stormsender in some discreet way. “Indeed.”

“May we go in?”

He glances back over at his charge. “Do you have need for the facilities?”

In terms of physique, her spindly limbs resembled less than those of an athlete and more of an adolescent Chocobo. “I like to dance,” she says. “Perhaps you could show me where the empty fitness studios are located? It would be nice to be able to rehearse my choreography now and again while I’m here.”

Since Cecilia’s arrival, time had not been on Ignis’ side. Providing her with a mobile phone and digital map of the palace grounds would’ve made matters significantly easier for everyone and allowed her the freedom to go wherever she pleased, but Tenebrae lacked the advanced computer technology of Lucis, and, despite all of his avian comparisons of her, in this instance Cecilia did not exactly take like a duck to water when Ignis had tried showing her how to use to the touchscreen interface. She might’ve become reasonably proficient given enough practice, but for the time being it was simply more efficient to act as her personal escort, even if it meant going out of his way to fetch her from her quarters and walking her to and from the study hall every day.

Which is why standing around like this was somewhat exasperating for Ignis, because every minute spend dawdling was another minute of sleep he’d have to forfeit in order to adhere to his busy schedule. Still, he’d promised his uncle that, in addition to serving as the young lady’s private tutor, her would act as her guide as well; perhaps a quick detour through the athletics facility would tick that particular box adequately enough to fulfill the elder Scientia’s request.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches for the bronze plated handle and opens the door for her. “But of course.”

A rush of cool air greets the two of them as they enter into the building’s main foyer. Ignis leads Cecilia past the front desk, pausing briefly to scribble his name down on a sign-in sheet set out by the receptionist there, before guiding her to where the foyer splintered off into three long corridors. “Ball courts and weightlifting rooms are down the eastern hallway,” he says, gesturing toward the leftmost corridor. He then nods toward the central one. “The southern hallway is where you’ll find the lockers, showers, and steam rooms—er, obviously.”

Cecilia’s unusually large eyes widen even further when her gaze falls upon a wet and shirtless man exiting the central corridor at that exact moment. “I see,” she murmurs, making a concerted effort at fighting back a smirk. “And the western hallway?”

He steps off toward the remaining corridor, Cecilia a few paces behind him. “There are a few individual training rooms down this way that might suit your needs. If you’re looking for privacy, however, be aware that the foot traffic on the western side of the building makes the area considerably less secluded, as the main athletics hall is on this side as well.”

The cool air that was circulating in the foyer becomes noticeably different about halfway down the corridor—Ignis can sense the rise in temperature and a significant increase in humidity as they near the central gymnasium. He can now also hear voices, scarcely audible at first, then more and more distinct as they draw closer, until they finally make it to the end of the hallway and exit onto a balcony situated high above the gymnasium.

“My goodness,” Cecilia breathes, immediately moving toward the railing to better take in the view. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was this big looking at it from the outside.”

They are standing in the Citadel’s main athletics hall, a large chamber comprised of a vaulted ceiling with polished wooden floors that spanned several dozen meters in either direction. Tapestries emblazoned with the royal crest hang from the north and south walls, while windows on the west-facing wall allow in long streams of light. Down below, a broad shouldered young man saunters up and down the length of the room as several pairs of uniformed cadets trade blows with broadswords, their collective grunts ringing out in the immense space.

It takes but a moment for Ignis to recognize the black lines etched into the man’s biceps and forearms as the unfinished tattoos of his friend, and another moment for the man to glance up and make eye contact with him before tossing him a two-fingered salute. Ignis raises a hand in acknowledgement, then returns his attention to Cecilia. “It appears there is an important sparring exercise in session, so I’m afraid I’ll have to show you where the private training rooms are located another time. For now, I think it would be best to resume our journey to the study hall.”

If he was hoping to shepherd her toward the same corridor from whence they came, it’s apparent his pupil has other plans. “Someone you know?” she asks, leaning leisurely against the railing and tilting her head back toward the tattooed man below.

Ignis resigns himself to lingering in the gymnasium a little longer and leans against the railing beside her. “Gladiolus Amicitia. He’s a colleague of mine.”

“Amicitia, that sounds familiar.” Her brows knit together in concentration for a heartbeat before recognition crosses her features. “I know—isn’t that the name of the king’s sworn shield?”

“Clarus, yes. Gladio is his son.”

“Will he also be named Shield?”

“He may, in time. It’s not explicitly an inherited title, but every Shield in recent memory can be traced to the Amicitia line.” He watches as his friend monitors the technique of each cadet, interrupting them here and there to critique them on their form, or to summon his own broadsword in order to demonstrate an alternative tactic. “He’s certainly made it his mission to be worthy of the title, considering how much he trains.”

“Does the crown prince also train? I’ve read in history books that his father was quite the formidable swordsman in his youth.”

 _Only when he can be bothered to leave the bloody arcade._ “Sometimes.”

“Do you train?”

Ignis looks over at Cecilia, only to find her wide eyes focused on himself. “Of course. Anyone intending on joining the Crownsguard is expected to be proficient in some form of weaponry or another.”

“Can you also do what he does? Summon a weapon out of thin air like that?”

The Crystal’s magic was such a common sight to those who lived and worked at the Citadel that he had nearly forgotten how impressive it might appear to those unfamiliar with it. “Well, yes.”

A curious smile touches her lips. “May I see?”

The novice advisor might’ve been more willing to flaunt his abilities in front of Cecilia had he a better grasp over them; as such, he had been bequeathed with the privilege of conjuring a weapon at will only a few short months prior, and the cuts on his hands and wrists were proof of his current level of ineptitude. “It’s not a parlor trick,” he says curtly, concealing his lacerated fingers by stuffing them into his pockets.

“Ah. My apologies.”

The downtrodden note in her words strikes a guilty chord in Ignis, and he softens his voice. “I’m surprised anyone from your kingdom would be impressed by the divine arts. Tenebrae has its own magic, does it not?”

“You don’t see as much magic as you might think.” Her sullen tone has met her eyes, and she pushes herself away from the railing. “Only the Oracle is blessed with powers divine, and her duties take her away from Tenebrae more often than not. As for the rest of its constituents, the Empire sees to it that most of us never leave the continent.”

As she turns away from the balcony to head back into the corridor, Ignis has a revelation in that moment. Cecilia is neither attention deficit nor birdbrained, as he had initially—and unfairly—judged her to be; she is simply inquisitive about the world presently around her, a world with cell phones and automobiles and any number of curiosities she had likely never encountered in her homeland before. He had mistaken her childlike naïveté for absent-mindedness, and in just a few short days she had forced him to slow down the frantic pace of his life, which he found to be at once both mildly aggravating and somewhat relieving.

He meets her stride as they make their way down the corridor together. “We have quite a lot of ground to cover in your studies while you’re here,” he says, “but if you’re that interested, perhaps I can arrange for you to sit in on one of my polearm classes in the near future.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Lady Cecilia, please—”

“I told you, you don’t have to call me that. Just ‘Cecilia’ is fine.”

“All right, Cecilia. Now, if you would just focus for one minute—”

“I’m _trying_. You know I’m rubbish at geometry.”

Ignis forces himself to stifle the reprimand that is hovering on the tip of his tongue. “I suppose we have been at this for a while now,” he says instead, willing his impatience away as he closes the textbook in front of him. “Perhaps a short break is warranted.”

“Thank Astrals.” Cecilia mirrors his movements and shuts her own book, then pushes back in her chair before rising from the table they are seated at. “I think I’ll go make myself a cup of tea. Would you like anything while I’m up?”

“Coffee, thank you.”

He rubs at his temples as she starts off toward the study hall’s lounge, silently debating with himself on whether to resume the torture upon her return or simply move on to another subject. She was, in fact, rather rubbish at geometry—two weeks of slowly falling behind on the mathematics materials her professors in Tenebrae had provided her with was proof of it, and Ignis wasn’t in the practice of downplaying the obvious just to spare someone’s feelings, Cecilia’s included. Still, she excelled in other areas, especially in literature and history; having finished reading two of the books assigned to her on the journey from Niflheim to Lucis, she had already completed a third since her arrival, and was currently devouring a biography of The Pious King that she evidently found as enthralling as Ignis found sleep-inducing when he had read it as a student.

Cecilia Lex Fatum was actually quite the paradox to Ignis, when he thought about her for any length of time—which was a fair bit more than he had ever expected to think about her, given the circumstances of how they met and the fact that they only spent two hours each day with one another. But there were some things about her that left the young retainer scratching his head, like discovering she was actually _older_ than him by half a year, even though she could pass for several years younger. Or how, despite having a splay-toed gait that caused her to waddle a bit like a duck, he could barely hear her footsteps beside his whenever they schlepped to and from the study hall together. She often complained about the tediousness of academia, yet in the same breath could recite long passages from the Cosmogony with near-perfect recollection, and her genius behind the stubbornness reminded him in some ways of the other highly intelligent-but-obstinate person who had been in his care since childhood.

“I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee,” she says, her footfalls so silent she practically materializes beside him. “I can run back to the lounge and grab a few packets of sugar, if you’d prefer.”

The hand she uses to pass him a steaming paper cup is so slender that he wonders if it would come across as impolite to offer her some pastries from the cafeteria. “Black is just fine.”

She then returns to her seat and blows at the steam rising from her own cup. Before Ignis can open his textbook and pick up from where they left off, however, she eyes him inquisitively from across the table. “May I ask you a question, Ignis?”

He was no stranger to diversion tactics; his royal charge was an expert at them, and at this point Ignis was all but immune to their effects. “Only if it can be answered in less time than it takes for me to find the last problem we were working on,” he says, retrieving his book and thumbing through the pages.

“What exactly do you do here at the Citadel?”

“I do whatever is asked of me.”

“I meant in more… _precise_ terms. What is your role here? Do you have an official title?”

The weight of her stare is not lost on him, but he resists meeting her gaze. “I’m a chamberlain to the crown prince.”

“Prince Noctis, you mean?”

“Correct.”

“If I didn’t already know, I wouldn’t have guessed the king even had a son. I haven’t seen him once since I’ve been here.”

“It isn’t terribly surprising. He hasn’t lived on palace grounds for over a year now.”

“But you do?”

“For the time being.”

“So then, what does being a royal chamberlain entail?”

“Oh, you know—this and that.”

“Could you be more specific?”

He finally grows weary of her inquiries and looks over at her, annoyed. “Shall we continue on with the lesson? Or were you planning on interrogating me all afternoon?”

“No, I—” She drops her gaze and fiddles with the steeping teabag in her cup. “Sorry. I was only hoping to get to know you a bit better, is all.”

Ignis realizes a heartbeat too late that Cecilia’s probing likely had less to do with procrastination and more to do with having very few opportunities to make friends since her arrival in Crown City. An inkling of guilt trickles into his gut and he gnaws on the inside of his lip, then closes the textbook and pushes it aside. Because even a person as rigid and straitlaced as Ignis wasn’t a completely heartless monster, and even he knew there was a time to crack the whip and a time to yield.

“My role has evolved throughout the years,” he says, reaching for his coffee on the table in front of him. “Noct’s mother died when he was very young, so I was initially brought in as a companion, of sorts. Now that he’s shouldering more of the day-to-day responsibilities as heir apparent, my duty is to support him in whatever capacity he needs.”

She’s still fiddling with her teabag, but the previous dejection in her voice is quickly replaced by curiosity. “That must be quite an important job.”

“I suppose. Sometimes I’m transcribing royal decrees and constitutional amendments. Other times I’m scrubbing the stains out of his dirty laundry.” He sips nonchalantly at his coffee. “Variety is the spice of life, as they say.”

Cecilia lets out a laugh. “And what do you do for fun?”

“Nothing, really.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Surely there’s something you enjoy doing outside of work?”

“My life is my work. The two go hand in hand, for the most part.”

A frown suddenly appears on her face. “Will it always be that way for you?”

“Once I swear my oath as Crownsguard, then yes.”

“When will that happen?”

He is alarmed at how much her inquiries are sounding increasingly like pity to his ears. “A month from now.”

She stares at him in silence for a long moment, their respective drinks growing colder by the second. “Have you ever questioned your duty before?” she finally asks.

It’s a simple enough query, and one Ignis likely would’ve scoffed at had it not come from a source as earnest and sincere as Cecilia. Nor would he have hesitated in answering it for as long as he does, if he’d had the clarity of heart to reject the notion outright. “That would be like questioning fate,” he says, fully aware of his own noncommittal response. “If the Astrals ordained that I be by Noct’s side, then that is where I am supposed to be.”

“Some people _do_ question their fate,” she points out. “Some people even walk away from it—did you know The Pious King had a crisis of faith?”

“Of course. And he eventually reaffirmed his faith—that’s why he became known as The Pious.”

“The fact that he was even able to cast aside the crown at all without any divine intervention says something, does it not? The Six did not smite him when he left, and the Crystal did not reject him when he returned—perhaps the laws of fate are not as unyielding as they seem.”

His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Are you having a crisis of faith, Cecilia?”

Whatever retort she had planned evaporates before any words are able to escape her. After a moment, she knocks back a gulp of tea and sets it aside. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is there’s a whole wide world outside of Tenebrae, and it would be rather dreadful to be trapped there by the Empire forever.” She then looks over at him, a sad smile touching her lips. “Surely the Gods aren’t that cruel, are they?”

There isn’t much to say after that. Ignis makes the suggestion to stay later the following afternoon in favor of calling it an early day, and the two walk quietly side by side on their way back to her living quarters. Nothing derails Cecilia’s attention from their outing this time, however; not the restoration work taking place on the Citadel library’s outer facade, nor the budding flowers in the courtyard signifying the start of an early spring, nor even the small army of glaives laughing and loitering outside of the athletics facility. Her eyes are transfixed on her feet the entire time instead, even as they ride the elevator several stories up the Citadel’s eastern tower, and she seems almost surprised when they arrive at the front door of the palatial suite that had been allocated for her and Ambassador Lex Fatum’s personal use.

A flicker of life eventually stirs behind her eyes once again when he hands over the books he had been carrying for her. “Same time tomorrow?” she asks.

“Same time tomorrow,” he replies.

“I’ll spend some time this evening reviewing what we weren’t able to cover. Hopefully I’ll be more familiar with the material than I was today.”

“Whatever makes you feel most prepared.”

“Thank you for all your help.”

“Certainly.”

An unusual ambience is emanating from Cecilia in that moment; she’s not exactly hiding it, what with the way she is peering up at Ignis from the door’s threshold, and her large eyes remain glued to him for an uncomfortable length of time before she finally speaks her mind. “May I ask you another question? I promise it won’t be as existential as my last one.”

He shifts awkwardly under her stare. “All right.”

“Why do you wear your hair like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know—” She raises a hand to mimic the sweeping flow of hair across his brow. “All in your face, like a mop. I can barely see your eyes behind your bangs.”

A jolt of ice shoots down his spine. Cecilia had no way of realizing she was walking into a proverbial minefield, and the young advisor knows he ought to give her the benefit of the doubt. But it had long been a sore subject for him—Noct embodying the very definition of a kid brother by relentlessly poking fun at Ignis’ insecurities over the years—and it would be easy enough for him to squash that particular avenue of conversation entirely with a single threatening glare.

He ultimately opts for the high road. “If you must know,” he says, working hard to keep the annoyance from his voice, “I suffered from acute acne in my early teens. My hair helps to hide the scarring.”

If he was expecting sympathy from his pupil, he finds himself sorely mistaken. “Are you joking?” she laughs, her giggles echoing throughout the hallway. “Why on Eos would you cover up a part of your face for such a silly reason?”

The ice in his spine has turned downright glacial, and Ignis can no longer conceal his irritation. “It’s easy to laugh when you’ve never been teased about anything.”

“You think I haven’t?” She reaches for the hem of her skirt and lifts it a few inches above her knees. “Scarcely a single day goes by without someone commenting on my knobby knees, but you don’t see me walking around in long pants all the time.”

Come to think of it, Ignis couldn’t recall a single time he had seen Cecilia dressed in anything other than the flowing chiffon skirts she favored, the ones that fell to her knees that she wore even when the weather was dreary and she needed ankle boots to keep her feet dry. “Some of us are more self conscious of our imperfections than others,” he sniffs.

“That’s too bad. I imagine you’d look rather handsome with your hair styled back.” When he blinks at her in silence, she raises an apologetic hand. “Not that you aren’t already, of course—handsome, I mean.”

There are two competing emotions currently occupying Ignis’ mind: utter confusion, since he has no idea where any of these sentiments of hers are coming from, and mild embarrassment, for not having the first clue how to respond to them. “Er, thank you,” he replies warily.

Then, for reasons completely unknown to him, the next few words suddenly fly off his tongue: “As are you, if it’s not impolite for me to say.”

She cocks a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m… handsome?”

“No, I—”

“So I’m hideous?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Well, you see—”

He fumbles over his words for several excruciating heartbeats, wondering what in the world possessed him to open his mouth in the first place. Before he can make a proper attempt at explaining himself, however, she interrupts him with a laugh. “I’m teasing, Ignis. I just wanted to see you squirm for a bit.”

He wrinkles his nose irritably, but his discomfort mercifully begins to subside. “Glad one of us is enjoying ourselves.”

“Has anyone ever told you how seriously you take everything?”

“Only everyone.”

A smile spreads across her face, and she shifts her books over to one arm before reaching for the doorknob. “Well, then, see you tomorrow.”

He tilts his head respectfully. “See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, and one more thing—”

He is only just beginning to turn toward the direction of the elevator landing when he feels a soft sensation brush across his right cheek. “Thank you again,” Cecilia says when her lips leave his face. “If I haven’t said it before, it’s nice to have someone to look forward to spending time with every day.”

The young retainer barely notices the door closing behind her over the sensation of his face turning bright red.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Last SFW chapter before the smut. (Sorry it's taking me so long! TT___TT)

One might look at Ignis Scientia and be inclined to think he was incapable of amorous feelings. It’s an understandable mistake; the royal council had long advocated for levelheadedness and composure amongst its members, so the young retainer learned early on to temper his emotions, especially those that were irrelevant to his job or might otherwise distract him from it. Many of King Regis’ inner circle remained lifelong bachelors for that very reason, like the Marshal, Cor Leonis, and even Ignis’ own uncle. Others, like Clarus Amicitia, had managed to successfully strike a balance between love for family and duty to the crown. Clarus was the exception rather than the rule, however, and most council members agreed that passionate affairs of the heart had no place at court.

That wasn’t to say those feelings didn’t exist within Ignis, just that they were buried deep down and only surfaced under rare circumstances. He had gone through the agony of puberty like every other man before him, with all the insatiable desires, unpredictable erections, and embarrassing nocturnal emissions that accompanied the entire miserable experience. Unlike other men, however, Ignis didn’t have a plethora of male friends his age to commiserate with—finding some things too shameful to share even with Gladio—nor did he have access to the same kind of… _resources_ most young men utilized to relieve themselves of their urges. But he was nothing if not creative, and inarguably better at hiding his objectives than most, and had once checked out every last book featuring classical nudes from the Citadel’s library under the guise of furthering his art history studies.

Not that he’d had any practical use for those urges. Even when the occasional man or woman caught his eye, he had never acted on his feelings, because no one had ever batted so much as an eyelash in his direction. Whether it was because people knew he was destined for the high council, or because they interpreted his aloof air as cold and uninviting, or simply because they all found him patently unattractive, Ignis had always expected to lead a solitary life, a concept he was simultaneously at peace with and somewhat mournful about. He had told himself time and time again that happiness didn’t hinge on finding a partner, that serving as Noct’s closest advisor when he became king would be equally fulfilling as any family he might beget himself, and he’d even come close to believing in his own words—that is, when Noct wasn’t being a veritable thorn in his backside.

Perhaps it was the undercurrent of irascibility that bled into every conversation they had together that made Ignis occasionally think twice about his dedication to Noct. He had always understood the immense pressure his friend was under, and was willing to make concessions for his behavior on account of him being a sensitive and temperamental teenager—the last heated argument they had come to blows over had eventually been settled over a silent meal of Cup Noodles—but the concept of permanence had never loomed quite so large over Ignis’ head before, the ability to walk away from it all at any time becoming less and less likely the closer he came to swearing his oaths to the Crownsguard.

Nor had he ever considered the notion that he may have had a choice in the matter.

He didn’t quite know how to unpack his recent conversation with Cecilia. She had called him handsome, although it may have just been out of politeness, since ‘handsome’ wasn’t an adjective people often used to describe him. He also wasn’t sure how to interpret her advances—if she even meant anything by them, that is. Reading people had always been something Ignis was good at, but displays of affection were a different language entirely, as foreign to him as the runes of ancient Solheim. A peck on the cheek could mean anything, depending on the culture; he had read in a book once that kisses were employed liberally as greetings in Altissia, whereas the same gesture could signal the threat of death by the Gralean mafia—

_“Oof!”_

A flash of fur streaks by the young advisor, darting past his knees and nearly taking him down in the process. It’s his own fault for not paying attention, he grudgingly surmises; the corridor he is currently walking down is narrow as it is, and the last person he ought to be thinking about as he approaches a door at the end of the hallway is the one making him question his loyalty to the individual on the other side of that very door.

He retrieves a keycard from his pocket and inserts it into the lock, making sure to generate plenty of noise when he enters so as not to startle the apartment’s sole occupant, or at the very least give said occupant enough time to quickly conceal any questionable activity. After removing his shoes and pocketing the keycard, he shuffles toward the kitchen. “Noct?”

“In the living room,” a voice calls out. Following it to its source, he finds Noct propped up on a couch and browsing through several pages of notes spread out on a coffee table. When their eyes meet, the younger man tosses him a nod. “Sup.”

Thankful to not be stumbling upon his friend in a compromising position, Ignis lets out a sigh of relief and sets a grocery bag down on the kitchen counter. “Have you eaten anything this afternoon? I brought some roasted daggerquill if you’re hungry.”

“I was actually gonna meet up with Prompto at the arcade in a couple hours,” Noct says, his attention returning to the notes in front of him. “I’ll just grab something while I’m down there.”

Some instincts were too deeply ingrained for the novice advisor to overcome—like the urge to micromanage Noct’s life, for instance. “Does that mean you’ll be skipping out on another sparring session with Gladio? This is the third one you’ve missed this week.”

“Eh, I’ll take it up with him later. I’m sure he’ll find some way to make me pay for it.”

“You should at least consider putting in an appearance at the palace soon. Your absence has been noted.”

“By who?”

“The Citadel always has a few curious visitors interested in seeing what kind of person Regis’ son is shaping up to be.”

Noct’s expression sours as he thumbs through his notes. “Too bad we can’t trade places. You do a much better job at repping Dad’s legacy than I do.”

A frown tugs on the corners of Ignis’ own lips. “Come now, don’t say that.”

“We both know it’s true.”

Noct’s assessment isn’t wholly inaccurate; the two were reared to be as close as brothers, and yet their respective upbringings could not have been more different if they had been born on separate continents. The adopted son had benefitted from a private education fit for a prince, whilst the trueborn heir was schooled through Insomnia’s public education system. One ate, slept, and bled royal protocol, while the other had been mostly shielded from aristocratic indoctrination. It had been Regis’ plan by design—so important it was to him that Noct be a “Prince of the People” that he sent him to live a pauper’s life away from the royal residence—and had ostensibly been a winning strategy for all parties involved.

But there were times when Ignis, who had been immersed in all facets of palace life from a young age, inarguably had the advantage when it came to embodying the principles of Lucian royalty. Whether Noct was truly bothered by the inevitable comparisons, it was hard to say, especially since the person directly responsible for his humble lifestyle was his own father. Regardless, it was impossible to ignore the disappointed faces of those dignitaries who had mistaken the young retainer for Noct and visa versa, and it was all Ignis could do to reassure the crown prince that he was not, in fact, a disgrace to his lineage.

A dull ache settles in on Ignis’ chest, but his stoic nature makes it difficult to offer any meaningful response. So he shows his solidarity toward his boyhood friend the only way he knows how, and begins rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of ingredients. “I suppose I should do something with all this daggerquill I brought. Why don’t I whip up a pot pie for you to keep in the fridge? You can always eat it later.”

The morose look on Noct’s face is replaced by a halfhearted smile. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Iggy.”

A lull falls over the apartment as Ignis prepares the savory dish, Noct studying quietly on the couch to the sounds of vegetables being chopped and pots being rinsed. It’s only when the chamberlain-turned-culinary scholar is done painting the final egg wash on the pie crust and popping it into the oven that he finally breaks the silence. “By the way,” he says, watching as Noct collects his notes off the coffee table, “I ran into Umbra in the corridor on the way here. He seemed to be in quite the hurry.”

The younger man slips the notes into a knapsack without looking up. “Yep.”

“How _is_ Lady Lunafreya doing these days?”

“Good. I guess. Doing a lot of traveling.”

“So I’ve heard. It sounds like the Empire keeps her quite busy treating the citizens of Niflheim.”

Noct snaps his head up. “Have you been reading my notebook while I’m out?”

Ignis removes his cooking apron and sets it aside. “Of course not. An ambassador of Tenebrae has been at the Citadel on a state visit for the last three weeks. I’ve been tutoring his daughter.” When Noct’s expression grows quizzical, he sighs. “You would’ve known if you showed your face there once in a while.”

“Daughter, eh?” Noct waggles a mischievous eyebrow, then shakes his head. “Just kidding—I know you’re only attached to your work.”

It’s an innocuous comment, one that under normal circumstances would scarcely register in Ignis’ mind, and yet for some reason on this particular day it cuts surprisingly deep. Maybe it was because it reinforced the notion that he was undesirable, or that he lacked basic human emotions, or that without his role as chamberlain his life was absent of all meaning. For a brief moment, Ignis is tempted to mention Cecilia by name, as if that would somehow prove to Noctis and anyone else who cared to listen that his destiny was not in the hands of the Six, but rather that he alone was in control of his own fate.

But he struggles to find the truth in the falsehoods he tells himself, and the moment passes.

“Have they changed their travel policy for foreign dignitaries?” Noct asks. “I thought statespeople could only leave Tenebrae under the Imperial Custody Agreement.”

Ignis hides his sudden chagrin by busying himself with the oven timer. “I’m not sure. It’s not really my place to inquire about such things.”

The Imperial Custody Agreement—a conveniently benign name for something altogether more malevolent—was a policy implemented a few short years prior, when Tenebrae fell fully under Imperial control. Knowing that the annexation of the Oracle’s homeland would be viewed unfavorably by more autonomous states, like the Accordo Protectorate, the Niflheim Empire had been quick to reassure the rest of the world that Tenebrae was not entirely under lock and key, and that any ambassador or statesperson was free to come and go as they please so long as they left behind a good-faith deposit. Usually those deposits came in the form of a hostage, although the Empire evidently disliked the negative connotations associated with the terminology, opting to refer to them instead as ‘consenting wards of the state’—a curious turn of phrase, considering the detainees had little choice in the matter.

He would have to ask Cecilia sometime how the agreement applied to her own circumstances, and whether it was a contributing factor in her recent melancholy. For now, he points to the timer and steps into the living room. “I’ll be heading out now, so be sure to take the pot pie out of the oven to cool before you leave for the arcade.” He then stops beside the couch and withdraws his keycard. “You also have a suit fitting for my Crownsguard ceremony scheduled for tomorrow morning. Shall I pick you up at nine?”

Noct glances up and rakes a hand through his unkempt bangs. “Crap, that’s no good for me. I was planning to go fishing tomorrow.”

“I can reschedule it for you, but it’ll have to be no later next week. The ceremony is the week after next.”

“How would you feel if I just skipped the ceremony altogether?”

Any concerns he had about Cecilia or his own providence evaporate from Ignis’ mind. “Why would you want to do that?”

“You remember how long and boring Gladio’s ceremony was. Literally all I do is sit there until the very end when I hand over Dad’s glaive.”

“But you’re the crown prince. You’re supposed to be there.”

“It’s not about me—it’s _your_ big day, not mine.” Noct flashes him a teasing grin. “If people have been asking about me as much as you say they have, you should be glad I won’t be there to overshadow you. Seriously, you’d be dodging a bullet.”

The blood in his veins has turned to ice, and he sets his jaw. “You’re asking me to give up my entire life for you, when you can’t even give up two hours of your life for me?”

“That’s not what I meant—you’re taking this completely the wrong way.”

It’s a small victory for Ignis see the smile fall from his friend’s face. “If my oaths mean so little to you,“ he says cooly, turning abruptly and striding toward the front door, “then you’ll excuse me if I ask for some time to contemplate taking them at all.”


End file.
